


Ugly Duckling

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Image, Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Conscious Sherlock, Shy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has spent his life thinking that he's ugly, and it really wouldn't bother him except for two things: a) he wants John to like him, and b) he finds himself on a case involving underwear modeling. But apparently body positivity comes with a bloody side dish of serial killing, and John in nothing but pants is very distracting. What's an ugly duckling to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly Duckling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themayflynans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themayflynans/gifts).



> This was written as a fic giveaway for my first giveaway draw on [my Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/) for [seeing-fire](http://seeing-fire.tumblr.com/) who has been very patiently waiting for me to finish this!
> 
> The request was for virgin Sherlock who is self-conscious about some part of his body and John being slow and sweet and worshiping Sherlock's body.
> 
> Hope I delivered!

Sherlock didn't remember a time when he hadn't been ugly.

His classmates used to tease him all the time when he was young, pushing him around and calling him names on the playground. They'd used to call him things like 'toothpick legs' or 'horse face' until the day their teacher had read them the story about the ugly duckling.

After that, his name had ceased to be Sherlock at all.

For years, no one but his family called him by his name. During classtime, his peers had started calling him "Duckie," and the teacher, thinking it was such a cute nickname, had started calling him by that as well, much to the delight of his classmates. She'd had no idea that she was actually assisting them in their playground bullying, and probably remained ignorant of it to this day.

He'd left grammar school and eventually ended up in university, where the only one who still knew about the horrid childhood nickname was Sebastian Wilkes.

Sherlock had learned not to care whether his appearance was ugly or not. His intelligence was of utmost importance to him, and as long as he could always be smarter than his peers, then that would be good enough for him. That wasn't exactly hard, but he reminded Wilkes of it for all three years of university.

Sebastian only passed because of his tutoring help, and in exchange, Sebastian didn't call him Duckie.

A graduate in chemistry after only four and a half years, Sherlock was certainly one of the smartest men in England. Or so it had seemed, until he'd managed to put himself in hospital after making his own drugs.

Mycroft had made the drug investigation go away.

"You look like a wraith," Mycroft had said upon seeing him in the hospital.

Sherlock didn't care what he looked like.

He didn't. He had never wanted to look good for anyone, and never wanted anyone to admire his appearance. His most admirable quality was his brain, and as long as everyone knew he was the smartest, then nothing else mattered.

And then suddenly, John Watson walked into a laboratory at St. Bart's, and he found that he did care, after all.

He prodded his own face while looking in the mirror, and all he could see was his hollow cheeks, thin from all his days of poor nutrition. Skin sallow, cheekbones as sharp as knife blades. It was a hold-over from his time under the sway of cocaine. He'd lost much of his appetite and desire for sleep when he'd been taking cocaine, and never regained it. He just didn't care enough to try and keep himself properly fed again. 

He stared at his body in the mirror, examined it with his hands and looked at his face like he hadn't in years. His skin was papery and white, and looked like parchment stretched tight over an awkward, jutting frame. It was not a welcoming landscape.

As suspected. He was still ugly.

Ugly Duckling till the end.

Anyway, it didn't matter. John loved women, and nothing Sherlock could do would change that. John liked all sorts of women – tall women, short, curvy, slim, dark, pale... Sherlock had never seen John look at him like that, and why should he? Sherlock wasn't much to look at.

John admired him for his intelligence, which was how it should be. That was what Sherlock thought was his best quality as well, so it made sense. Who needed good looks when the two of them were off chasing criminals, and the thrill of the case made their blood sing? Not Sherlock.

Sherlock would have been absolutely fine to never ever discuss his appearance until the case with the missing models.

Lestrade called at 9 AM on a chilly October morning for Sherlock to come and look at a crime scene.

Sherlock took one look at the scene in front of him and proclaimed, "Serial killer."

Lestrade looked guiltily at him.

"You thought you could figure it out yourselves this time," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes," Lestrade sighed. "Just look at it, will you?"

"How many others?"

"Two so far. We've been going overtime on this all week," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "We thought we'd have it in the bag, but we can't figure out what connects them all."

"She looks like she's posing," Sherlock mused, looking at the dead woman reclining on the bed.

"Yeah, we figure the murderer posed her like that."

"Yes, but she doesn't look 'posed' by someone else, she looks like she's posing," Sherlock said. "How did they do that?"

It turned out that the bodies were strung up with various sizes of steel wire to keep the bodies posed in position. The wire was actually woven through flesh and around bone, like particularly macabre art.

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning in a state of fascination. Lestrade kept trying to steer him toward the matter of finding out how they were all connected, but Sherlock was enthralled. It wasn't everyday that a murder like this popped up, and he intended to savour it. Lestrade brought photos from the rest of the crime scenes and Sherlock was in crime scene heaven.

"Seriously, Sherlock, how are they connected?" Lestrade groaned for the fifth or sixth time that day.

"John is going to get here soon," Sherlock answered absent-mindedly.

"Is _he_ going to tell us how they're connected?" Lestrade asked tersely, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said. "It would be obvious if you just thought about it."

Lestrade stopped groaning in order to glare at Sherlock. "You've known this entire time."

"You would, too, if you just _observed_."

Lestrade made a frustrated noise and put his hands up in the air.

"Looks like I've got here just in the nick of time."

"John!" Sherlock and Lestrade both said, although Sherlock sounded far more enthusiastic.

"Can you sort him out, he's withholding evidence again," Lestrade said at the same time that Sherlock announced, "We have to go undercover as underwear models."

"What?" Lestrade and John both asked.

"Underwear," Sherlock said. "How could you miss it? Obviously, Lestrade, it's the only thing they have in common besides being posed. They're all wearing the same brand of undergarments."

"Just because they happen to be wearing the same popular brand..." Anderson started off.

"Brand new," Sherlock said. "Look, this bra is hardly even worn, expertly fitted, still has the black thread from where the tag was removed. They're _all_ brand new. Look at the evidence in front of you!" He flailed the crime scene photos in Lestrade's direction.

"Not exactly model material, are they?" Anderson said.

Sherlock walked to the cluttered table and picked up one of the open magazines from a pile. He brandished it in Anderson's face.

"Body positivity campaign?" Anderson asked.

"Yes, Anderson. None of these models are typically attractive. Which is why it's perfect for me to go undercover as one of these models. One day, and I'll have our murderer."

Everyone at the crime scene stared at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "One day is all I'll need. Steel wire. Should be very much apparent who our little murderer is."

"Um, that's not why they're staring, Sherlock," John said.

"Why then?" Sherlock asked. "Are you saying I'm even too ugly to be a body positivity model?"

"Quite the opposite," Lestrade said, nodding gruffly. "It'll have to be John."

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "But John's perfect."

There was a lot of mutual blinking and staring going on at that crime scene.

"Sherlock," John said gently. "What they're saying is that short and stocky isn't conventionally attractive. Whereas you..." He gestured helplessly, and everyone nodded.

"But I'm ugly," Sherlock protested, and there was even more staring.

"You..." John stopped and asked. "Do you really think that?"

"I only deal in fact, John," Sherlock said. "Look, I have silly skinny legs and a long face with all these angles... why am I explaining this to you?"

"Boys, boys," Lestrade raised his hands calmingly. "This is a body positivity campaign. The whole point is not to be negative about anyone's body, right? So how about you both go. I'm sure you can figure some way to persuade them to let you in, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed. "My face should suffice."

John sighed and looked at him tiredly. "Let's just go find this place and get it sorted, yeah?"

Sherlock spent the entire cab ride over to the studio grumbling about John's perfect proportions and pleasing countenance. He felt somewhat miffed about the fact everyone seemed to agree John was the best possible model. John was extremely attractive. How could anyone miss it?

"You think _I'm_ attractive?" John asked, sounding amused.

"Yes," Sherlock said, bristling at the suggestion that John disagreed with him.

"Okay, okay, fine," John said, raising his hands. "But we'll both try out, okay? I don't want you chasing a murderer in your pants by yourself."

Sherlock nodded and smiled. Chasing a murderer in their pants. It sounded fairly ridiculous when one said it like that, and yet Sherlock could envision it happening no other way.

OOooOO

They had to wait in line to audition, and Sherlock fidgeted nervously.

He'd been excited before, because of the murder, and anticipation of the coming case. However, now he had to stop and actually think of what this entire thing entailed.

Sherlock was going to have to take off most of his clothes.

It wasn't the nudity that made him balk. He'd been nearly naked in Buckingham Palace, after all. But it was the point of the nudity. When he'd been at the palace, he'd been trying to be offensive, and his unattractive body on display had surely achieved it in the rudest possible manner. The point of modeling was to be beautiful, to take pleasure in the aesthetic of the human body.

No. More than that. They wanted them to be sexual.

There was nothing in the world that Sherlock was less prepared for than being sexual, particularly in front of anyone. Sensual. Perhaps sensual would work well instead, although Sherlock wasn't much of a sensual person either, at least when people could see him.

And then, Sherlock remembered John.

John would be there too, watching.

Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat.

John would be taking his clothes off and posing seductively.

Sherlock swallowed and clutched his hands together, trying to think desperately of a way to somehow survive the coming encounter with judging eyes on all sides, cold camera flashes and John. It was a bit of an overwhelming prospect. The case. Sherlock had to finish this for the sake of the case, because that's what was actually important, not Sherlock's weird social hang-ups.

It was this mindset that had swamped Sherlock when his name was finally called.

He walked up to the photography director and promptly froze, unable, for once in his life, to think of a thing to say.

"Holmes?" asked the photography director, looking at his application. "Sounds familiar. The photo attached tells me you're a man of great –"

The director looked up, took one look at Sherlock and stopped.

"Oh," the director said and then paused. "That's interesting."

He came up to Sherlock and looked him over, head to toe. Sherlock didn't move, feeling like a mouse captivated by the stare of a snake. Hypnotized, he didn't move an inch, even as the director walked around him in a full circle.

"Do you see it?" he demanded of one of the photographers, who nodded in response.

"What?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"Exquisite," the director said with a happy sigh. "You really do think you're plain-looking, don't you."

"Not plain," Sherlock protested. "Ugly. Look at me, can't you see it? I'm too thin and pointy, all pale and washed out. Why am I always explaining this to everyone?"

"I can see why you would think that," the director said. "As seperate pieces, you really are a jumble of very strange parts. However, if you put them all together... stunning."

Sherlock was getting very tired of having to repeatedly explain why he was ugly when people should be able to just see it by looking at him.

"It's remarkable," the director said happily. "Half of your aesthetic is that you're completely unaware of how gorgeous you are. Your self-conscious manner is exactly what I'm looking for."

"What?" Sherlock asked, shivering a bit in his underwear.

"I must have you," the director continued blithely. "I'll put you on the front cover!"

"Is everything all right here?"

"John," Sherlock said in relief.

Until he turned and realized that John was standing behind him in only his pants. Sherlock had been perfectly correct in his assessment of John's attractiveness.

"Oh, yes, fine," the director said appraisingly, looking John over. "This man here is going to be the main model in our latest shoot."

"Is he now?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"His manner, his attitude... look how he's holding himself," the director walked around Sherlock and gestured. "Like a frightened virgin on their wedding night."

Sherlock blushed.

"Really?" the director asked, eyes gleaming.

Oh, Sherlock had not wanted anyone to know that, especially John.

"What a pair you are," the director said. "This one's confident, not body modest, but with one of the biggest bodily imperfections I've seen."

Sherlock made an angry sound in protest.

"He means my scar, Sherlock," John said, rubbing at it with his hand.

"I am going to have such fun with you two," the director said, rubbing his hands together. "I'm Alfred Babcock, by the way. But I absolutely need the pair of you. I need a few more models, but you must come back tomorrow afternoon."

Babcock chattered on excitedly at them for a while, even as he was showing them out the door and shoving business cards into their hands.

Once they were back in their clothes and out in the general hubbub of London, Sherlock felt much better. He folded his coat around him and turned the collar up. He looked at John out of the corner of his eye. He'd always wondered what John would look like totally uncovered. He had caught intriguing bits and snatches in their time living together, but not in its glorious entirety. Sherlock's mind palace already had a pedestal built to put the memory of John's body on.

"You alright?" John asked, as Sherlock hailed them a taxi.

"Yes, John, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said briskly.

"Well, what he said," John said. "You did... look like a frightened virgin."

"I'm sure you're used to having people look at you when you're naked, but not all of us have as little shame as you apparently do," Sherlock snapped, regretting it the moment he said it.

John just smiled. "Has no one looked at you while you're naked before?"

"All of Buckingham palace," Sherlock reminded him, although in the context John was talking about, the real answer was "no."

"Ah, yes, that," John agreed. "But that was before anyone told you that you were attractive, wasn't it."

"I'm not attractive," Sherlock said, biting the words out.

"But you are," John said. "You're gorgeous."

Sherlock felt himself blushing again and snapped, "Hardly."

He turned and faced the window, looking at his reflection, tracing all the sharp angles with his eyes, wondering how anyone could find that beautiful.

OOooOO

The next day found them back at the studio, where they were quickly ushered into the changing rooms to put on the brand model underwear they would be showcasing. Sherlock fidgeted with the band of his pants, dithering about stepping out of the safety of his little cubicle.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "You coming out?"

Sherlock came out reluctantly, arms folded in front of him protectively.

They were directed to the middle of a room, and all around there were cameras and crew all running about, getting things ready, rigging lighting and camera angles. Babcock was chatting with some people in business attire in the corner, and mostly everyone was ignoring them.

"So, do you have any idea of who the murderer might be?" John asked in a whisper.

The murderer. God, Sherlock had forgotten entirely about the murders, he was so preoccupied with mostly-naked John and his own qualms about being undressed and displaying himself in front of numerous people.

He looked around the room carefully, but there was nothing. Tons of data about inconsequential things, such as who owned a pet, strange personal habits and relationship status, but nothing about murders. That one had a hobby collecting little elephant figurines. That one liked painting. No one he could see obviously enjoyed putting bits of wire through dead bodies and arranging them.

"Can't see anyone," Sherlock whispered back. "Might take another day."

John sighed, but didn't complain.

Babcock came over to them finally, and began blathering on about body position and aesthetics, which Sherlock largely ignored. He simply positioned himself as indicated and tried not to feel self-conscious. They posed him in very close proximity to John, but not quite touching, so that Sherlock's skin tingled with the nearness, and the desire to be closer.

He... he didn't mind John looking at him.

Or, at least, it was different. When John looked at him, the shyness he felt was different than when anyone else looked at him.

He concentrated on John, trying to block out the camera flashes around them, letting people position him as they liked. John smiled reassuringly whenever their eyes met and Sherlock tried to relax.

During a break in shooting, and Sherlock was allowed to put a blanket around himself, Babcock came over to chat.

"You know about my campaign," Babcock said. "My stance is that everyone is beautiful in some way or other. It's finding what it is that brings it to the surface. Now, I can tell you are nervous about this. Why made you decide to try out for the photo shoot, if not to showcase your own personal beauty?"

Sherlock could not very well tell him they were looking for a murderer.

What to say? Sherlock wracked his brain and decided that he might as well tell him a true story, even if it was not the real reason he was here.

"They called me Duckie, when I was a child," he said.

He explained what had happened, and as he spoke, he saw Babcock getting more and more excited. John, on the other hand, was looking more and more angry.

"It's perfect!" Babcock said. "Surely you remember the whole story, Mr. Holmes? Don't you realize that the Duckling of the story was never a duck in the first place?"

He ran off the set, leaving Sherlock and John by themselves. They were eventually shifted to the side so that other models could get their shoots done.

"What did he mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, in the story, the ugly duckling wasn't an ordinary duck at all," John said softly. "That's because the ugly duckling was extraordinary. He grew up and discovered he was actually a swan."

"A... a swan?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Yeah," John said, smiling gently.

"But swans are beautiful," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, exactly," John said, smile widening and eyes getting a strange, soft look in them.

Sherlock's breath caught.

"Yes, exactly!" cried Babcock, reappearing suddenly, and waving his hands. "'Release your Inner Swan' is our new campaign header, thanks to your story."

Then he rushed off again to help direct the next shoot.

"A swan," Sherlock repeated, trying to rearrange his brain around the idea.

"Yeah, a swan," John said. "Elegant, aloof, untouchable."

Sherlock blinked. "I'm not untouchable, am I?"

John went still, and Sherlock suddenly realized what he'd said. 

"You're not untouchable if you don't want to be," John said quietly. "Do you... want to be?"

"N-n-not-not for everyone," Sherlock stammered, feeling rather hot all of a sudden.

John moved his hand and slowly slipped it into Sherlock's, squeezing his hand and settling in to watch the rest of the shoot. Sherlock could barely concentrate with his heart pounding so loudly, and his hand clutched tightly in John's.

Babcock came back eventually, and told them he didn't have any more time to fit them all in today, but would they come back tomorrow? He had some more ideas for pictures that he wanted to work out for them now that they had a theme.

Sherlock hadn't even thought about the murder the entire day. He looked at John, and John nodded minutely. Of course they had to return with the case unsolved.

OoooOO

The call came at 3 AM, and the two of them arrived at the scene within a few minutes.

"Sherlock, I recognize her," John said.

It was one of the other models from the day's shoot, a black woman. It was all the same. She was strung through with steel wires and posed like a queen, stance wide and confident. And then Sherlock held his breath. She had black feathers in her hair, almost hidden against the dark strands.

"Release your inner swan," Sherlock said sadly.

"Babcock?" John asked in a whisper. "Are you sure? Anyone could have overheard him or talked to him since yesterday about the new campaign."

"I didn't want it to be him," Sherlock said. "I was ignoring it. The case. Because I wanted..."

"Wanted?" John said, stepping closer.

"I wanted to be beautiful," Sherlock said in a small voice.

"You're beautiful," John said. "You don't need a psychotic murderer to tell you that."

"Lads, you got anything?" Lestrade asked tiredly. "I know you said you'd have it solved by now, but we really need a lead on this case."

John began explaining about Babcock and Sherlock left him to it.

"Wait, wait," Lestrade interrrupted. "How do you know it's Babcock with this swan thing?"

"He just came up with it today," John said, glancing at Sherlock.

"Because of something I said," Sherlock finally chipped in. "My duck story."

Lestrade gave him a weird look, and Sherlock reluctantly explained the significance. 

"That's not quite enough evidence to just search his house," Lestrade said. "What we need to do is search the set, ask the victim's friends some questions, interrogate this Babcock chap."

"So what should we do?" John asked.

"Go back to the set," Lestrade said. "We need to question some others to establish a trail of evidence before we get to the big fish, as it were. So just go, see if you can find evidence while you're there."

OoooOO

The two of them got changed out of their clothes in silence in side-by-side stalls as they prepared themselves for the day. Sherlock was preoccupied as he slipped his clothes off. He should have noticed that Babcock was the murderer, right away. Going back through the evidence in his head, it was obvious. Just look at the callus pattern on his hands, places rubbed smooth by twisting steel wire between them, over and over. Not just a casual hobby, this.

His obsession with beauty was telling. His attitude, and the way his eyes gleamed manically as he arranged people on stage. Who was he going to choose tonight?

Sherlock stepped out of the changing room and into a room set up with contrasting dark and light areas of the stage, shadows and reflections bouncing every which way. Someone had set up props around the room to break up the light and make the shadows create the shapes of tree branches. It looked like a glade in the forest.

It took a few moments for Sherlock's eyes to adjust.

And then he realized several things all at once:

The trees were all made of steel wire.

There was nobody else on the set at all – Sherlock was alone.

John was taking far too long to get undressed, considering his ex-army status.

Sherlock spun around only to find that Babcock was behind him, gun in hand. John's gun. John was nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, ah, ah," Babcock said, gesturing with the gun. "Knew there was something about you. Sherlock Holmes. Looked you up. Consulting detective turned underwear model, or undercover for the police? I think you know the conclusion I've come to."

Sherlock went to move in the wrong direction, but Babcock just grinned. "Now, Mr. Holmes. I'm not stupid. I've tied your companion up, and unfortunately, in the position he's in, death will occur by positional asphyxiation very shortly. Unless you cooperate and let me tie you up and push bits of wire through you."

Ah. Babcock's next victim. He should have realized.

"While I'm still alive?" Sherlock asked.

"Just curious," Babcock said. "Primal behaviour and its effect on my art. Nothing more viceral than struggling to stay alive, is there?"

"You've made a miscalculation," Sherlock said.

"I don't think I have," Babcock said. "I think I've sussed out exactly how far you would go for John Watson."

"No, that you do have right. If I had to, I would certainly let you kill me if the alternative was John's death." Sherlock smiled with all his teeth showing. "But, it turns out, I don't."

And then John smashed Babcock in the head with the lead pipe he'd assumedly been tied up to before John had escaped. Babcock sank straight to the ground, where John took the gun from his lax fingers with an air of satisfaction.

"How did he get you?" Sherlock asked sulkily.

"I was naked and I left my gun in my jacket," John said. "How he knew it was there, I have no idea. Then the idiot hung me to a corroding pipe. Half of my escape job was done simply by my body weight."

Lestrade came by to collect Babcock, and Sherlock and John went back to Baker Street.

This entire case had left Sherlock feeling awkward and exposed, on more than one level. He would be perfectly happy to never have to discuss it again. Thankfully, it looked like John would be quiet about it as well. And he didn't ask why Sherlock hadn't figured it all out immediately.

For some reason, Sherlock was disappointed by that.

It looked like things were going to return to normal, and Sherlock felt an itching sensation between his shoulderblades that ached strangely of dissatisfaction, but what could he say? It wasn't finished.

Sherlock just thought that _something_ would change.

He knew something about Sherlock now. Several things that Sherlock had kept secret, and now that he knew them, he thought it would at least be acknowledged somehow.

It seemed they were just too British for the required conversation.

And then they ran into Seb Wilkes one day at a magazine stand.

Sherlock had stopped because he saw the magazine and couldn't move again. It was him and John on the cover. He couldn't remember if anyone had decided to simply go ahead with the photo print in spite of the murderer being revealed to the public. They must have, because there he was.

He picked one up off the rack and stared.

He looked... he really did look like...

"A swan," John said softly.

Sherlock blinked hard, and then quickly flipped to the photo shoot. John was there as well, and a few with him and John posed together. Aesthetically, it was quite pleasing, in a visually contrasting sense.

Quite, quite viscerally, it hit Sherlock like a punch in the gut. All the air had left his lungs, and Sherlock's mouth filled with saliva. He felt a swoopy feeling in his stomach, and his feet beneath him were unsteady, as if he'd been dropped on a tilting ship on a stormy ocean.

"Never thought I'd see the day."

And then he'd come back to reality so fast his teeth jarred together unpleasantly.

"Seb," he said.

John was looking at Seb quite a lot like he was contemplating violence. Oh dear, should probably not let that happen, as attractive as John was when he was flushed with victory after physical altercation.

"Posing like a peacock on the front of a magazine," Seb said with a smirk. "Or rather, a swan. Finally figured it out, did you, Duckie?"

"Don't call him that," John growled, and the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stood on end.

"Thought he was ugly for _years_ ," Seb laughed. "When really, we could all see where he was headed years down the road. Bloody funny though, wasn't it? Gorgeous bloke like that thinking the reason all the girls were staring at him was because they found him repulsive? Ha."

"Hilarious," John said, and punched him straight in the nose.

It broke with a very satisfying 'crunch,' and Sherlock felt his pulse pick up. He'd never denied that he found John attractive, and he saw no reason to start now. Not that he could really hide how flushed his face was or how dilated his pupils probably were.

John looked up and saw his face.

"God," he said.

And suddenly John was kissing him, and the world spun. John clutched the edges of his jacket hard, leaning up and using the fabric in his hands to pull Sherlock's head down to his. Sherlock's pulse pounded rapidly in his ears. His hands flailed and eventually settled on John's shoulders.

Sherlock pressed back tentatively, pursing his lips awkwardly as he tried to figure out how to kiss someone on the fly.

John grinned against his mouth and didn't stop or slow down at all, letting the rush of hormones overwhelm them both. Sherlock gasped, and his hands scrabbled at John's shoulders, finding their way to the back of John's head and curling into soft, golden hair.

"I'm pressing charges!"

Sherlock resurfaced, flushed and breathless.

Seb was holding a handkerchief to his nose that was starting to soak through with blood. His head was tipped back to try and stop the blood leaking down his front, although that didn't prevent him from glaring at the pair of them.

"You do that and I tell your wife about that time in Ibiza."

Seb took a deep breath to argue, realized it was futile, and walked away, swearing vehemently under his breath.

Sherlock beamed at John helplessly. God, he must look like an idiot, but he could still feel the imprint of John's mouth, could still taste it on his lips, and it was simply intoxicating.

John grinned back, leaned up and kissed Sherlock, then proceeded to drag him back home, their hands tightly entwined. 

Sherlock stared at their joined hands in fascination.

Sex. They were going to have _sex_.

Probably.

He actually didn't know. Sex etiquette was a mystery to Sherlock that he hadn't felt the urge to look into until this point, but he thought that being dragged directly home after a heated snog indicated probable coitus.

Sherlock thought that he'd quite like to have sex, actually.

His anatomy was certainly on board with the plan.

John opened the door to 221B, pulled Sherlock through, closed the door, and then proceeded to snog Sherlock against it. He pressed Sherlock into the hard wood with his entire body, claiming him with heat and pheromones, rubbing his scent into Sherlock.

Sherlock whimpered.

John stopped.

Sherlock made an unhappy sound and tried to kiss John again.

"Wait," John said. "Are you sure about this?"

"Fairly sure," Sherlock said, squirming against the restraint of John's body.

"Right," John said. "Properly. Let's do this properly."

John was so set on his properness. To be fair, Sherlock would have been quite happy to be brought to orgasm half-clothed against the front door. John's way was probably better.

Oh. John was going to take his clothes off.

Sherlock shivered in delight.

Yes. Much better. He rather liked the idea of John undressing him.

Quivering with anticipation, he followed John up the stairs, up and up until they reached John's bedroom. Sherlock had snooped there before, knew exactly where John kept the lube and condoms. His eyes darted to the top drawer of John's bedside table, and John caught the direction his gaze went in.

"We don't have to go that far," John said.

"I want to," Sherlock said. "I want to have proper sex."

"Proper sex doesn't have to include that," John said. "All proper sex really needs is at least one orgasm from all involved, whatever the method may be."

"P-penetrative sex, then, if you want to be pedantic," Sherlock said, flushing at the stutter.

"You've never –"

"Neither have you."

"Maybe I haven't had penetrative sex with a male partner, but I have had anal sex with a female partner. Also, I'm a doctor."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, wiggling eagerly. "You'll take good care of me."

"Will I?" John asked, but pulled Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock hummed happily as John kissed a wet trail from his ear right down his neck. It was sending little tickling thrills down his body, setting his gut fluttering and his groin pulsing in anticipation. 

Fingers at his collar.

One button, two, three buttons, four.

Wet mouth on his collarbone. There was a tight feeling in his chest as John explored the broad expanse of his chest with both his mouth and his hands stretched out, feeling him through the fabric of his shirt. John's hands parted the fabric, diving beneath it to caress his sides and belly.

"Gorgeous," John said, slipping the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders and devouring the sight before him with a heated gaze.

A flash of apprehension. John looking at him, but Sherlock felt beautiful under his gaze, so that was okay. It was good. 

"There's a good lad," John said, lowering him down to the still-cool sheets.

He felt his stomach flutter and closed his eyes. "Say that again."

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock swallowed hard and said, "Say it again. I like it when you tell me that I'm good. And brilliant. And amazing. Amazing is one of my favourites."

John leaned down and whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, making Sherlock shiver in delight.

"You're _so_ good, Sherlock. Such a clever lad, aren't you? So brilliant and beautiful, just like a swan. Just look at you, spread out over the bed, all for me. Lovely, gorgeous, simply amazing."

Sherlock whimpered and arched his neck, and John kissed all over his upper body as he worked Sherlock's trousers open and eased them off over Sherlock's hips. John's lips contacted his left nipple, and he couldn't help but cry out loudly. John grinned and hovered over the pert nub, breathing hotly over the sensitive skin and circling it with his tongue. Sherlock gasped and clutched at the back of John's head.

"Gorgeous," John said. "You react beautifully. Are you this sensitive everywhere?"

Sherlock whimpered, and John made it his mission to find every sensitive spot on his body. All he could do was lay beneath John, feeling the heat radiating from his body and let John mouth at every bit of skin that made him shiver or cry out.

John drew back, and Sherlock managed to prop himself up on his elbows to watch as John stripped off his jumper and jeans. 

The first thing Sherlock did once John clambered back onto the bed was feel the flexing muscles in his chest, fingers running through coarse golden hair and over a hard expanse of muscle. John was so primally beautiful that it made Sherlock's breath catch just watching him move.

"Like that, do you love?" John asked and kissed his neck.

"That, too. Call me "love" in that voice."

"What voice?"

It was a voice like honey, and sunlight, and like a future far in the distance where Sherlock kept bees and John wrote mystery novels that Sherlock would read, and scoff at, and secretly adore.

"That voice," Sherlock said instead.

"Yes, love," John said, then stroked his hands up and down Sherlock's legs, lifting one up to his shoulder so that he could mouth at the inside of his thigh.

Sherlock covered his eyes as John deliberately spread his legs, still shy, because John hadn't actually seen him all the way naked yet. His cock was pushing up against damp, sticky cotton and John's fingers were brushing over the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thighs, close to the apex of his legs.

Then, John pulled his pants down, slowly. Reverently.

Sherlock gulped a few times, trying to speak.

"John –" he said.

Then John cupped his testicles in one warm hand, rolling them in his hand and feeling them carefully, gently pressing at the crease between them. Sherlock gasped, legs trembling as John's fingers rubbed through the thatch of hair around the base of his cock and then gripped the base firmly.

Sherlock made one high-pitched noise and then bit down on his palm.

John reached up and gently pried the flesh from between Sherlock's teeth and said, "Come on, now love, I want you to scream the house down."

Sherlock nodded jerkily and then cried out raggedly as John stroked his cock, thumb finding the spot right under the head of his cock and rubbing until Sherlock's breath was coming out in gasping pants.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, love," John said, and then lowered his head down over his cock.

"John!" Sherlock cried, toes curling as John engulfed his cock in wet, tight heat.

He could feel his balls aching, and a hot swarm condensing in his groin.

"I'm going to get you nice and ready for me," John whispered, and then his tongue moved lower, swiping over his balls on their way down.

Sherlock moaned and spread his legs wider, pulling them up toward his chest to give John all the access he needed to that secret place. John lapped at his hole, pressing at the delicate skin and coaxing it to relax. Sherlock whimpered at the strange roughness of John's tongue as it swiped over his hole. John's tongue wasn't really rough at all, but it felt like it, when Sherlock could swear he felt each individual tastebud on his flesh.

Sherlock's gut squirmed, and the only reason he didn't writhe right off the bed in ecstasy was that John was holding on tight to his hipbones.

"Now my fingers, sweetheart," John whispered, and they felt like silk slipping inside him.

The stretch felt glorious, and it ached in exactly the way that made Sherlock tilt his hips up for more. John's fingertips rubbed over something inside him, and it send a bright spear of pleasure through his body. He cried out, and John, clever man that he was, found it again and pressed firmly and deliberately right where he needed it.

"Oh God," Sherlock said, without any words left to say. "Oh God. _John_."

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" John asked softly, kissing his lax mouth.

Sherlock whimpered and nodded.

"Can you say yes for me, love?"

"Yes, yes, _please, John_. I want – I want..."

John kissed his mouth again and then pressed forward slowly.

Oh.

That was very large.

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment.

"All right?" John gasped, teeth gritted as he slowly pushed in.

If John stopped, Sherlock might actually die.

"Yes," Sherlock said, trying to grasp at John's hips to pull him forward more.

John laughed and went a bit faster, easing himself in with little rolls of his hips, until he was all the way inside. Sherlock shuddered and tried to catch his breath, chest heaving and glistening with sweat.

"There you are sweetheart," John murmured in his ear, pulled back a little and then pushed back in.

Sherlock cried out, wrapping his legs up high around John's back. He tilted his hips up a bit more, and on John's next thrust, he hit that bright little spot inside him that made Sherlock see stars.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

It was more than pleasure, although that was throbbing along every nerve ending with every pull and push of John's hips and rising into a crescendo. It was a warm, condensed feeling sitting tight in his chest, and his mind on a never-ending loop of nothing but John. He was going to simply spiral away into nothingness, because John's hands clutching at his were the only things keeping him together.

Everything broke, and Sherlock screamed, just as John had asked. The hurricane inside him broke loose and swept through him, washing away all conscious thought, leaving him devastated in his wake. He might be dead, but it was worth it. It was more than worth it.

Sherlock came back to himself with the feeling of John's fingers in his hair.

"There you are love," he whispered, as Sherlock blinked up at him in surprise.

Sherlock breathed in and found himself remarkably still whole, recovering himself slowly but surely gathering up the pieces of his scattered mind.

"How was that?" John asked, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

"Revolutionary," Sherlock said, tilting his head back so that it rested against John's shoulder.

"I'll have to remind you at crime scenes that apparently the ability to make you orgasm is the greatest talent in my repertoire."

"Not just sex, John," Sherlock protested. "All of you. Everything."

"You say I'm revolutionary, but you made the transformation all by yourself," John said.

"Not just myself," Sherlock murmured, starting to feel sleepy as the soft, yet somehow solid warmth and security of John's chest against his back reassured him of John's existence with its every rise and fall. "You remade me. Inside."

"You had to want to change for it to happen," John said. 

"But you made it worth it," Sherlock replied sleepily. "You're worth my entire world."

And no one would ever be able to convince him again that he was the Ugly Duckling. John had shown him what it was like to be a swan.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [My giveaway policy](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/giveaways)


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